


Warped

by devovere



Series: Polarities [1]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Dubious Consent, Episode: s01e01 Caretaker, Episode: s01e03 Parallax, Episode: s01e06 The Cloud, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Male Slash, Sexual Abuse, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-06 22:16:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13420752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devovere/pseuds/devovere
Summary: The lives of Tom Paris, Chakotay, and Kathryn Janeway intersect, and sparks fly in a pattern that quickly grows disturbing. This first story is C/P-centric; subsequent stories will not be.





	1. Paris

**Author's Note:**

> This story is about a love triangle. It is not about people always behaving admirably or making wise choices. If you have a strong need not to see the main characters portrayed as flawed, you may want to skip this series. 
> 
> Lots of fanfic treats Starfleet protocol against fraternization as something to be ridiculed, or as a flimsy excuse for celibacy that collapses like a bubble once the characters finally cross that line together. I’m never entirely satisfied by this trope, and in this series I seek to explore more seriously the issue of power in affairs of the heart and the body. 
> 
> I’m also intrigued by the notion that Chakotay was originally envisioned as bisexual, and what that might have meant for key relationships in his life. 
> 
> Warmest thanks to Killermanatee, Helen8462 and thesearchforbluejello. “Beta-reading” barely begins to describe their generous contributions to this story and to me as a writer.

I’m a dead man. Except I’m still breathing. For now. 

And I owe it all to Captain Janeway. 

I only came along on this mission to get out of prison. Just furloughed, a little scenic side trip to the Badlands, pretending to advise Janeway on the whereabouts of Chakotay and his band of merry Maquis. All in return for the low, low price of her vouching for me at my next parole hearing. 

Hey, I’ve never pretended I’m not easy. 

I figured a change of scenery would do me good -- understatement -- and it seemed I had nothing to lose from the deal. I couldn’t tell her anything useful, this many months after I was captured on my first, only, and incredibly ill-fated mission for the Maquis. 

Hell, I didn’t tell them anything then -- not that I knew that much anyway. Funnily enough, they didn’t think to ask me what Chakotay is like in bed; that’s the one subject I guess I developed some expertise on in six weeks with his cell. 

What can I say? We were both drunk; he caught me off guard. I usually have better gaydar. The first time, I figured it was a fluke, some kind of “welcome to the Maquis” hook-up. I’d been sure he hated me, actually. Though I suppose there’s no law that says you can’t fuck people you hate. 

But then he kept coming back -- always when Seska was away, and obviously keeping us on the down-low, which was fine with me. I don’t think it would have helped my tenuous standing with the crew to flaunt that their captain was doing me. And after our first couple times … it felt private. He was tender with me, mostly, despite the rage he was carrying around. I wasn’t picking out china patterns or anything, but it seemed to me, sometimes, that we were connecting. Even if he mostly still hated me. 

Anyway. When Captain Janeway approached me in New Zealand, I figured one of two things would happen in the Badlands: either  _ Voyager _ wouldn’t find Chakotay, or they would. Either way, within a few weeks I’d be back doing maintenance on prison shuttles … and other things ... but hopefully with some brownie points toward parole. 

Either way, Chakotay would be none the wiser -- I certainly had no plans to visit him in  _ Voyager’s _ brig, assuming they could put him there. But instead, we got flung halfway across the galaxy, fetched up alongside none other than the very ship we’d been hunting, got …  _ sampled _ … by whatever alien force brought us here. 

And then the captain saw fit to beam Chakotay onto the middle of her bridge, not three meters from where I was seated at the helm. 

I really thought he would fucking kill me then and there. The rage I’d previously sensed buried in him was right there in his eyes and one hundred percent aimed at me. He coiled, would have lunged for me. 

But then the captain stepped between us, right up close to his leather-clad chest, and basically called him to heel.  _ And he obeyed her _ . Twice her size, with blood in his eyes, ready to do murder on her bridge one second, then practically in her thrall the next. It was the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. 

Still, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t off me when her back was turned. Or have his thugs do it. So, I guess it’s a good thing I managed to save his life the next day. 

I didn’t have to. No one else was left in the exit shaft. I could have returned to the surface and told the captain I hadn't been able to free him before the stairs collapsed. I honestly think he might have preferred it that way himself, to die rather than be in my debt. And now here we are, serving on the same ship. Along with a couple dozen of his crew, each of whom would be more than happy to rearrange my face on a rotating schedule if given the chance. And the rest of the ship full of spit-and-polish ‘fleeters who would be happy to look the other way ... or maybe lend them a hand. 

Except the captain says he’s taken responsibility for my safety. There was something in her voice, or maybe in my head, but when she said it I flashed back to a sensory memory, curled on elbows and knees, Chakotay’s body covering mine. 

I grinned and said to her, “I think I’m going to enjoy this,” but it was just to cover my gut reaction of … I don’t even have a word for it. Lust and dread, at the same time? What exactly is he going to expect from me in return for his protection? And how much, exactly, am I going to want to give it to him regardless? 

On the other hand, as long as I get to fly  _ Voyager _ … how much am I really going to care what Janeway’s new first officer wants to do to me between duty shifts? It can’t be worse than prison. 

Hell yes. I’m going to enjoy this. 


	2. Chakotay

My head is spinning. 

I took a shower, my first chance to clean up since … the  _ Val Jean _ . I wrapped a towel around my waist and programmed my specs into the replicator. Pushed another button, and a red command uniform materialized in front of me. 

Now I’m sitting on the floor, in a towel. Maquis clothing on the chair to my left. Starfleet uniform in the replicator to my right. The room, the galaxy, swirling around me. 

How many ways can a man’s life be upended before it ends? 

Who the hell is Kathryn Janeway, and how can she exert such pull on my every fiber? 

And what the fuck is Tom Paris doing on her ship? 

\-----

Mere moments after we met -- the first time she touched me and looked into my eyes -- I was hers. It’s that simple. 

I don’t know how to explain my response to her. She’d beamed us aboard  _ Voyager _ \-- me, Ayala, and Tuvok. Tuvok instantly betrayed me. Before that even sank in, I spotted Paris at the helm -- the very man I’d sworn to kill if I ever saw him again. I lost what little hold I’d had on my temper and was about to go for him when Janeway ... stopped me. 

It wasn’t the threat of the phasers under her command. It wasn’t anything she said -- I don’t even know what she said, to be honest. It was just … her. She came close to me and … something tight within me unraveled, some empty place was filled. I can’t describe it. I’ve never felt this way, about anyone or anything, ever. 

From that moment, it didn’t matter what role she gave me, as long as she let me follow her. 

I was fine with destroying my own ship to save hers. It made sense;  _ Voyager _ was by far technologically superior to the  _ Val Jean _ , and both vessels were under-crewed due to casualties. Combining our two crews was inevitable. 

I’m pleased to become her first officer. It should be a good tactic for merging the two crews, and it plays well to my Starfleet training and experience. 

Behind those logical reasons, though, I’m focused on something much simpler: joining Janeway’s crew as her first officer will put me literally by her side every day. Somehow, suddenly, that’s the only place I want to be. 

\-----

Paris, on the other hand … prison certainly didn’t improve his attitude. He’s still the same cocky, entitled ‘fleet brat I found in that dump of a pilots’ bar in ‘69. I can’t look at him without wanting to wipe the smirk off his face, and he can’t seem to speak to me without making some cheap and offensive crack, usually about my Native heritage. I’ve dealt with guys like him since the Academy, but somehow he gets under my skin more than most. 

While the fact that he served a sentence suggests he wasn’t undercover like Tuvok -- which was my first suspicion after he was so conveniently captured on his first Maquis mission -- he must have given them some intel on my cell or Janeway would have had no reason to bring him along as an observer. And then, somehow, he was the one to pull me from a collapsing stairwell on Ocampa. Of all people, why did it have to be a traitor, a mercenary? I wouldn’t borrow replicator rations from the man, but now I owe him my life? I’m obligated to protect him on a ship of people who also have good reason to hate him? 

I just hope he hasn’t let anything slip about our affair on the  _ Val Jean _ . I’ll own up to Seska; that was long-term, public, and as serious as any relationship could be in the Maquis … even if it was ill-considered and something I now regret. But nobody needs to know about me and Tom. It only happened a handful of times and was never more than physical. And it will never happen again. 

I don’t merely regret those times with Tom -- I don’t really recognize myself in those memories. It’s not like me to jump from bed to bed. The stress must have been getting to me. And … I let  _ him _ get to me. He was so damn irritating. Like nails on that chalkboard in the old schoolroom on Dorvan. But instead of driving me away he pulled me in. The first time, I swear I kissed him just to wipe that arrogant smirk off his face, and then … I don’t know. It felt too good to stop. I should have known better. I do now. 

\-----

I’m glad Janeway destroyed the array. I would have made the same decision. We didn’t ask to get involved in the resource wars of this sector, but we were involved nonetheless. Failing to protect the Ocampa would have been tantamount to committing genocide. 

It was the first time in a long while that I’d seen a Starfleet officer break with protocol to do the right thing. 

Still, I can’t help feeling that she deprived me of my destiny. I was meant to go down fighting to avenge my people. Some Cardassian somewhere was bound to kill me eventually. It was just a matter of time. 

Now Janeway has stolen that death from me. Tom Paris holds my life debt. I am caught up between these two people, towards whom I never intended any loyalty, with whom I have no business entangling my future. 

My father would be laughing at me. He never believed we control our own fates or have any say in our allegiances. He was born into a web of obligations, one of the People, his life mapped out for him. He was always content to walk that received path. He could never understand my need to venture beyond his world, his ways. 

If I had followed his example, done as he’d wished from my youth, I likely would have died with all the others on Dorvan. Maybe that was all I was ever looking for in the Maquis -- another chance at my own predestined Cardassian death. 

No Cardassians in the Delta Quadrant. 

Now what do I do, with this new lease on life, this rebirth among distant stars? Or will this prove to be a new kind of hell, joining the enemy in a fruitless attempt to protect those under me? Starfleet ways feel like riding a bicycle, pure muscle memory, but how long until those ways start to chafe my conscience again? 

I’m still sitting here on the floor of my new quarters, leathers to one side, uniform to the other, trying to meditate. Sister Wolf eludes my vision; my thoughts are too unsettled for her to find me. 

I keep seeing Janeway’s stern face. Her blue eyes, her hand on my chest, electricity sparking between us. My heart grounding itself in her, soothing a restless itch so old I’d almost ceased to notice it before it suddenly stopped. 

Her husky voice in my ears: “I need you, Chakotay.” I know she meant it as captain to potential first officer, as allies with the same mission. Not as a woman to a man she desires. I know that. And I know that donning that command red, pinning that rank bar to my collar, will close any door of possibility there might otherwise have been between us. In one motion, she’s tying me to her and placing me at arm’s length. 

It's enough. I’m hers. I’ll be at her side. That’s all that matters. 


	3. Janeway

“...Somewhere along this journey, we’ll find a way back. Mr. Paris, set a course for home.” 

After Tom’s answering “Aye, Captain” from the helm, you could have heard a pin drop on the bridge. I turned and surveyed my people -- all of them  _ my people _ now -- and felt goosebumps rise under my uniform sleeves. It was one of those subtle, charged moments where the tone is about to be set. I’d said my piece with confidence, but if it weren’t reflected back to me … the gravity of the situation, the precarity of our survival, was written on every face, and few met my eyes squarely. 

Until I reached Chakotay’s gaze. He was  _ there _ , fully present in body and mind, and unabashedly focused on me. I don’t really know how he managed to convey his trust in my leadership so palpably in just his stance and expression, but I instantly knew he was solidifying that leadership. Both for the others, and for me. 

Because yes, I’ve had my doubts, and I’m not too proud to admit that. Nothing in my career has prepared me to captain in this set of circumstances. So far from Federation space, no hope of back-up, ever, no matter how desperate we get. Fifteen percent of my crew dead at once, replaced with avowed enemies, a convict, and a hologram with a bad attitude. 

All of us brought to this quadrant against our will … but kept here by my decision, and mine alone. 

I’m made of pretty stern stuff, but to stare all this in the eye and not quail inside would take more strength than I possess. 

Something tells me I’ll be borrowing strength from others before long. Starting with my new first officer. 

\-----

Could Chakotay  _ be  _ a greater contrast with Cavit? The thought makes me feel disloyal, with the man’s body still in the ship’s morgue. Aaron was a good officer, competent in all areas and intensely dedicated to Starfleet. I admired him my whole career and was more than grateful when he agreed to serve under me on  _ Voyager _ ; it was at best a lateral transfer for him. 

Commander Cavit wasn’t pleased by my decision to bring Tom Paris on board. But after he’d conveyed his concern about the risks, he kept any further reactions to himself. If he had a problem with Paris after that, I never saw it. 

Chakotay, on the other hand … for a moment there, at our first meeting, I thought we’d have to phaser him to keep him from throttling poor Tom on sight. His complete turnaround, from looking daggers at Tom that day to volunteering his protection after Ocampa, isn’t something I would have predicted. 

And indeed, that seems to be a fair descriptor of Chakotay: unpredictable. Like his insistence that I consider Torres for chief engineer -- an idea so far outside the box I thought at first he must be mad to suggest it. It’s clear that he’s going to keep me guessing until we’re better acquainted. 

What puzzles me, though, is that despite this feeling that Chakotay is something of a live wire … I trust him. I never would have made him first officer if I didn’t, of course. Merging crews be damned; you don’t give command codes to someone if you think there’s any real chance they’ll turn traitor on you. 

I’ll grant you that destroying his own ship to help  _ Voyager _ went a long way towards convincing me of his sincerity. He clearly isn’t one to hedge his bets. 

It was our meeting in my ready room, barely an hour after the array’s destruction, that clinched my decision. He was still in clothing that smelled of electrical fires, and limping slightly on a leg that hadn’t been healed fully from his injuries. He may have been battered and bedraggled, but  _ damn _ he was magnetic. I’d never say this to his face, but his intelligence file does not do him justice. 

Charisma in an attractive man always puts me on my guard. Men like that are accustomed to getting their way and usually more than skilled at wielding charm like a weapon. I was on an adrenaline high myself from the battle with the Kazon and had to clamp down hard on my emotions before they ran away from me. 

I needn’t have been so cautious. Chakotay was …amenable? Deferential? Neither descriptor quite fits, but everything from his words to his posture told me I had his support, both for my decisions that day and going forward. He didn’t need convincing to help me merge the crews; he didn’t contest my requirement that  _ Voyager _ remain a Starfleet vessel. The only thing we went back and forth on briefly was his own rank and role. 

“You captained your own ship in the Maquis and were promoted to lieutenant commander on the  _ Merrimac _ before that. You have the skills to be first officer.” 

“Thank you, Captain. But my skills aren’t what I doubt.” His voice was warm but firm, intent on helping me see his side of things. “I don’t have Lieutenant Tuvok’s history with you, nor his years in service. And if your crew would expect him to be second in command, things could backfire on us before we get started.” 

His tone was so serious that I think my smile surprised him; his eyes lost focus and then shifted away slightly. “No one your age could match Tuvok’s years of service, even with this being his second Starfleet career. He’s over a hundred, you know.” He smiled at that …  _ oh, my -- dimples _ . 

I squelched a memory of Mark’s glowing smile --  _ I can’t afford to think of him, I don’t have the right _ \-- and moved on quickly. “As for your second point, this crew has served together only a few weeks, during which Tuvok was, well,  _ absent _ .” I cocked an eyebrow at Chakotay, and his answering wry expression acknowledged and dismissed my thinly-veiled reference to Tuvok’s recent time as a spy in his cell. “Very few of them know Tuvok from prior postings. And while he has command training, he has less command experience than you do.” 

I did not share with Chakotay that Tuvok himself had just told me he preferred to stay in his prior role as chief of security, nor that his eminently logical reason for doing so was to head off any conspiracies to mutiny by our new Maquis shipmates. Instead, I redirected the conversation. 

“My larger concern is how to help your crew trust my intentions. We can’t co-captain, but making you first officer should send a clear signal that I trust you with every conduit and soul on this ship in my absence.” I realized we’d drifted to stand close together …  _ when did that happen? _ I took advantage of our proximity to lay a hand on his chest. “I need you, Chakotay. I need you to help me show them my good will, my commitment to keep them safe and lead them fairly.” 

We held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded, eyes still locked to mine. He stepped back, assumed a parade rest stance with his shoulders squared and hands clasped behind him. It was an oddly formal note given his garb and the intimate tone our discussion had taken on. He said in his calm, firm voice, “I agree, Captain Janeway. I’ll accept your field commission, and I’ll serve as your first officer. And I will do my very best to help merge our two crews into one Starfleet crew.” 

He never broke eye contact. It felt like he was taking a vow or pledging fealty. The words hung in the air between us, charged with solemnity, freighted with more than he was saying, more than I had asked of him. I was reminded of Mark, his patient devotion to me, and was suddenly uncomfortable. I thanked Chakotay, hopefully conveying the gratitude that I was surely feeling, but then I moved abruptly into logistics and our immediate leadership concerns. 

\-----

We’re a week into this journey now, heading towards the Alpha Quadrant with few immediate goals beyond escaping Kazon space and keeping an eye out for food and dilithium along the way. So far Chakotay has made good on his promises, although not always in ways I liked at first. 

It’s puzzling, how he has seemed to trust me right from the start. I haven’t done much to deserve his loyalty yet, and I did a great deal to warrant his distrust before we’d even met. 

But I can’t deny that we seem to share a connection that reaches beyond common training or duty to the mission. I remind myself to keep such thoughts in check. I don’t really know him. He might yet turn out to be playing his own game, even if my gut tells me he's trustworthy. I can’t afford to let my guard down, all alone out here. 

If Chakotay does prove to be as good as his word, reliable and steadfast … I can’t help pitying the man. Because I suspect that, before it’s all over, I’ll have to use every last resource at my disposal to get this crew home. And he seems intent on being first in line. 

A captain has to be ruthless sometimes. They covered that in command school, but of course I'd already learned that lesson, in my first posting. It wasn’t being tortured that broke Owen Paris. It wasn’t ordering crew to their deaths. It was looking the rest of us in the eye, after. Thinking back to how much I still don’t know about my father’s career, I have to wonder if this knowledge -- how to armor myself in order to lead -- isn’t coded in my DNA somehow. 

Starfleet principles will be my road map, as always. Without them, chaos. But within them … there’s a reason we are counseled to keep our distance from our crew. No one can afford for me to break. Whatever it takes, I must endure. Until I get them home. 

I owe them that much, the living and the dead. 


	4. Chakotay

“I think that takes care of the duty shifts for the upcoming week, Commander. Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?” Captain Janeway seems tired, tense, as she sits across from me at her desk in the ready room. Her coffee cup is empty, and my intuition tells me she wanted our meeting to be over fifteen minutes ago, but I’ve let her put me off for three days running and this is the first time she’s given me an opening to raise a new topic. 

“Actually, yes. I wanted to discuss Mike Ayala’s field commission rank.” 

“What about it?” Her eyes have narrowed. 

“You made him an ensign. I think he should be a lieutenant.” 

“Based on what? He’s hardly served here long enough to warrant a promotion yet.” Is she deliberately misunderstanding me? 

“I’m not asking you to promote him. I’m asking you to revise his initial commission.” 

She waves a hand in dismissal. “Same difference.” 

“With respect, Captain, there  _ is  _ a difference, both for crew dynamics here and for his longer-term interests. Mike made full lieutenant before he left Starfleet. If you commission him lieutenant junior grade now, he’ll have the chance to regain the full rank within two years. If he starts out as an ensign again, even a promotion to junior grade during his first month of service would still leave full rank out of reach for another two promotion cycles. Per Starfleet protocol.” I’ve done my homework, and I can see that it irritates her, even though we both know that’s irrational. 

She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “And you also mentioned crew dynamics?” I have the feeling she’s just giving me enough rope to hang myself now. 

“He served eight years in Starfleet, earned commendations, and was discharged honorably. Being a field-commissioned ensign now puts him lower in seniority than three other security personnel with a fraction of his experience. Even Harry Kim is senior to him. You can’t promote Ayala over these other crewmen without causing hard feelings, but no one would contest a higher initial commission given his experience.” 

“So you think I made a mistake in commissioning him as an ensign.” Her tone is baldly challenging now. 

“No, Captain, I’m not saying that. I’m suggesting that with more complete information and time to consider it, you might now make a different decision about his initial rank.” 

“And whose fault is it that I didn’t  _ have _ more complete information, those first days?” 

I look down at the floor, lips pressed together to suppress any impulse to defend myself.  _ This is for Mike _ , I remind myself. 

The truth, and I know that she knows this, is that she was fighting me so hard on making B’Elanna chief engineer that she’d left me no bargaining chips for my other crew during those precarious first days. And then she’d finalized the field commissions in one fell swoop, based solely on minimal Starfleet records and Tuvok’s reports from his time as a spy on my ship, without consulting me further. But I will not make trouble for B’Elanna by saying as much now. 

“Mine, Captain. I regret my failure to discuss this with you more thoroughly at the time, and I will be sure that Ayala understands that.” 

Her glare tells me I’ve taken the wrong tack. “Do you mean to say you’ve gone behind my back to discuss this with him already? I won’t be maneuvered, Commander.” 

“No, not discussed, exactly. He came to me with the request, and I said I would bring it to you.” 

“So if I tell you no now, you can blame me instead of admitting to your  _ friend _ that you didn’t care enough to fight for him in the first place. I’m not impressed, Chakotay.” 

Ouch. That was a new level of bitchiness for her. Not just brusque -- cruel. I swallow and hope I didn’t flinch visibly. 

There’s a lull in our dialogue as I grapple for my center and she seems to wait for my answer. But she hasn’t asked me a question. Instead, against my better judgment, I ask her one. 

“Friend, Captain?” I’m using as mild a tone as I can manage. But I need to know on what basis she is using that term to describe my relationship with Ayala, and what she might be implying by using it now. 

“Friend, Chakotay.” She starts ticking things off with her fingers. “You served with him when you were both in Starfleet. You spent time in his home, with his family, both before and after he married. You recruited him to your cell when he joined the Maquis. You were drinking buddies any time the  _ Val Jean _ made port. You are godfather to both his sons. Shall I go on?” She is listing intimate facts about the years of my association with one of the best men I’ve ever known, and she’s making them sound suspect, even sordid somehow. The slow burn of an anger I only ever feel at injustice begins in my belly. 

I meet her gaze squarely. “Tuvok?” I ask. 

“Him, and your intelligence file.” She doesn’t scruple to throw that in my face. Her implacable tone adds fuel to the fire. 

“That figures.” It slips out, which it shouldn’t have, and it sounds bitter and juvenile even to my ears. She cocks an eyebrow at me, and I cast caution to the winds and plunge ahead. “Only Vulcans and the congenitally suspicious could make years of close friendship sound like a character flaw.” 

She takes a deep breath. Have I hit a nerve? “I won’t tolerate stereotyping on the basis of species, least of all among my senior staff, Commander. Tuvok was doing his job when he was a spy on the  _ Val Jean _ , and he is doing his job now as chief of security. I don’t appreciate your insinuations about my oldest --” she breaks off, presses her lips together. 

I raise an eyebrow. “Friend, Captain?” I’m using an entirely different tone of voice, and rapidly losing any semblance of control in this conversation. 

“ _ Advisor _ ,” she spits out. “Speaking of which, since Ayala is assigned to security, this request regarding his rank should have come through Tuvok, not directly to you. So you’re putting me in a difficult position with respect to both of them. If I deny the request, Ayala and the other former Maquis will say I’m discriminating against them, but if I approve it, I’ll be ignoring Tuvok’s rightful role in the chain of command.”

“And if Ayala  _ did _ approach Tuvok first?”

She looks at me sharply. “Did he?” 

“He didn’t explicitly say so, but that was my impression.” I dig deep for yet another display of humility. “I apologize, Captain; I should have gotten the full story before bringing it to you.” 

She rubs the bridge of her nose. “Let me speak to Tuvok myself. I’ll let you and Ensign Ayala know of my decision tomorrow.”

The same way she’d consulted Tuvok but not me in making the field commissions in the first place? Something snaps inside me. I lean forward, gripping the edge of her desk with both hands. “With all due respect, Captain, as first officer I should be part of that discussion.” 

She’s done. “ _ Fine _ . Schedule a meeting for the three of us during the shift change tomorrow. But don’t try to circumvent Tuvok as head of security personnel again, and don’t make promises to your former crew on my behalf. It undermines both my and his authority and disrupts the chain of command. Dismissed.” 

I do flinch then, almost as if she has slapped me, then stand, make an about-face, and leave her ready room before I can say anything to make the situation even worse -- for me, for Ayala, for the other former Maquis. I’m berating myself for not handling the conversation better, but I’m also just this side of furious with her, for twisting my advocacy for my former crew -- always with the larger goal of harmony for the whole ship -- into something venal and corrupt. 

And her reference to my intelligence file has unsettled me on a whole other level. We both knew she’d studied it when she was sent after me. I don’t expect her to forget anything she’s learned about my past. But to wield it against me so blatantly while holding me to the strictest confines of a good ‘fleet First Officer is playing dirty. 

The truth, though, is that it makes me  _ feel  _ dirty -- like my past actions will always color her opinion of me, like I can never hope to be redeemed in her eyes. 

I don’t want to examine too closely why that matters to me. I just know that it fills me with resentment and despair. 

\-----

My shift is over, and I need to walk off my anger. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I grab the PADD with the resource utilization plans that need the chief helmsman’s input. The computer confirms that Paris is in his quarters and alone. By the time I ring his entry chime, I’m fool enough to think I have myself under control. 

Then his door slides open and I realize I’ve made a mistake, coming here now. There’s just … something about the way Paris looks at me that brings out my worst impulses. Like he’s challenging me to pull rank, like he’s seeing right through everything I pretend to be. I don’t know any other way to react than to want to make him stop, by any means necessary. 

He’s in civvies, a clingy blue shirt that brings out the color of his mocking eyes and emphasizes the line of his shoulders. Drawstring black pants that hang low on his hips. He’s barefoot. There’s something about the vulnerability of his bare feet while I’m in boots that makes me want to protect him and dominate him at the same time. 

I see him size me up, take stock. I mutter something about the plans he needs to read and hold out the PADD. Every higher-level neuron in my brain is telling me not to cross the threshold of his quarters, just hand over the PADD and leave. I can go to the holodeck, run a boxing program, pound my frustration away on inanimate photons. 

But he doesn’t take the PADD from me. Instead he steps aside, gestures me in. And as my brain shouts no, my feet -- and maybe other parts of me -- carry me forward, through the doorway and past him. The door slides shut. 

“Well, Commander, I certainly appreciate your going out of your way to bring me these plans. I’m sure you want my response as soon as possible. Would you like something to drink while I read through them?” His words are entirely professional. His tone is entirely not. I’m forcefully reminded of every shiny clean-cut upperclassman at the Academy who made my life hell as a first-year cadet, knowing just how to convey their scorn without ever dropping the civilized facade they’d been raised from toddlerhood to perform. It was far too redolent of Janeway’s tone as she’d put me in my place minutes ago. It enraged me. 

“No. I don’t need a drink, Paris.” I bite the words out. It’s a door I can’t seem to help opening, and he seems more than pleased to walk through it. He uncrosses his arms, shifts his stance in a subtle way that seems to heat the air between us. My cock twitches and my breath comes more quickly. 

“So just what  _ do _ you need, Chakotay?” With his use of my name instead of my rank, we are suddenly back on my ship, in his tiny quarters with the rust stain on one wall and nowhere to sit. My resentment boils over suddenly, like something bursting under pressure. I snarl, fling the PADD aside, and reach for him. 

He lets me. There’s no resistance as far as I can tell. He’s taller than I am. Maybe not stronger, but strong enough that he could fight his way free from the grip I have on his shoulder. I tell my last remaining scruple that this must mean he consents, and then our mouths crash together and I’m not thinking anything at all. 

It feels too good to stop. So I don’t. 


	5. Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the tags and notes again. This chapter is where things get intense.

When he shows up at my door after our shift, I’m not surprised. I’ve been expecting him for weeks, ever since I’d gotten the message indirectly that I was under his protection. I’ve been in prison; I know how this game is played. I just hadn't been sure of certain details: how often, what acts, and whether it would be only Chakotay or whether he’d be passing me around to others. I’d sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be the latter, and so to have the man himself appear is honestly a relief. Him, I know, more or less. I trust him not to hurt me. Much, anyway. 

It’s cute that he’s brought a PADD to make the visit look legitimate, and kind of endearing that he actually waits for me to invite him in. Not that he wastes much time once he’s in my quarters and the doors are closed. We’ve barely exchanged ten words before he’s pulling me in for a kiss. 

What happens next is both like and unlike our times on the  _ Val Jean _ the previous year. It’s Chakotay, and he takes the lead, as he always has. But he’s in uniform, and he’s my superior officer in a Starfleet chain of command, and that … colors what we’re doing, in a way that complicates what used to be very simple. We both know this is at least frowned on by protocol. Maybe that’s why I keep getting these glimmers of discomfort from him, these small hesitations. 

His hands go under my shirt, so mine start unfastening his jacket. I tug it off his shoulders and he growls against my neck, like he’s frustrated that he has to stop touching me long enough to move his arms back and get the jacket off. When it’s on the floor he steps back and yanks my shirt over my head. We’re not being gentle, but when I tear apart the fasteners of his gray undershirt, the metallic pop of the magnets separating seems to startle him. He catches his breath, glances down to the floor like he’s suddenly remembering who we are, where we are. When his gaze returns to my face he looks … stricken, and so very needy. 

I'm panting. I run my tongue over lips that feel bruised already, and that seems to pull him back into lust mode. His hands go around my waist. He presses his hipbone into my belly, trapping our hardened cocks between us, and then he is kissing me again, slowly. Both our mouths open and his tongue runs along my teeth, between them, past them. His large warm hands are working against my back in a slow, rhythmic motion. It all combines to make sparks go off in my head, in my groin and gut, and then my hands are gripping the back of his head and I hear myself moaning into his kiss. Because this kiss  _ is his _ . He’s kissing me like he invented kissing and is giving me a thorough demonstration of how it’s done, how it should always be done. 

I’m getting dizzy so I break the kiss to take a breath, and my head falls back. That puts his lips, his teeth, at the base of my throat. He licks, nips, kisses, sucks. I’m twitching and moaning, and with my head tipped back and his hands firm against my lower back, my pelvis is thrust forward against his. We are rubbing our cocks together through our clothing and it feels --  _ god, it feels so good _ \-- 

“So fucking good,” I gasp. I’m surprised by the sound of my voice, surprised I’ve spoken. More surprised when his response is to raise his head, straighten fully, and scowl at me like I interrupted something.  _ Oh, right _ , I remember.  _ He hates me _ . Then a look of sheer disgust crosses his face and he looks down, breaking our gaze. 

I’m suddenly terrified he’s going to walk out on me, pull his protection. I don’t know what I’ve done to warrant his contempt, at least in the last ten minutes, but I’m sure that if he leaves now, without finishing what he started, our deal will be off. I do not want to start looking over my shoulder in deserted corridors and praying I’m not assigned to pilot the wrong team on away missions. 

Before he can step back, I drop to my knees and bring my hands to his waistband. He freezes. I look up at him and he immediately looks away, to the side. But he doesn’t move away or try to stop me.  _ Fine _ , I think.  _ So long as he doesn’t have to see my face or hear my voice, he’ll let me bring him off _ . It’s not the most flattering reaction I’ve ever had from a lover, but I can work with it. 

I undo his fly, then reach in and fondle him through the fabric of his underwear. I draw his pants down over his hips and mouth my way along his shaft, still with that thin layer of cloth between us. I hear a brief guttural moan from above me and risk a glance upward. 

His face is pointing straight ahead and his eyes are clenched shut. But what really gets me are his hands. They’re poised inches from my head, like he is reaching toward me but can’t bring himself to actually touch me. And they’re trembling. 

_ Christ, is he scared? _ I don’t understand. We’ve done this before -- granted, a long time ago and under rather different circumstances. I don’t understand what might be holding him back from taking what I’m offering -- hell, he’s the one who came to me in the first place. 

Before I can lose my nerve, I up the seduction factor. I gently pull his pants further down, then use my hands to massage my way up the sides of his thighs, then along the curve of his ass. I’m nuzzling his crotch through his underwear, making sure he can feel the moist heat from my breath along the insides of his thighs. I feel him relax just a little and press his groin against my forehead, so I get bolder, hook my fingers in the waistband of his underwear, and pull it down. 

As his cock springs free, it brushes against my face. I start at the base and lick the underside, along his whole length. I reach his foreskin and my mouth closes around him. His hands finally grip my head, fingers meeting in the back at the base of my skull. I glance up again and this time see his face pointing down at me, eyes still closed but mouth half open. He likes what I'm doing, and this encourages me. 

I settle down in earnest to pleasing him orally. This is something I enjoy with all my partners, men and women -- it's not the bits that matter to me, it's the power to drive the other person crazy while I stay in control. I can remember what Chakotay likes, and that's what I work on giving him now -- firm strokes with one hand along his shaft, foreskin pulled back and light humming suction on the head. He doesn't need me to deep throat him to get off, and he's not one to ram my head over his cock; he just directs the pace of my hands and tongue with his fingertips massaging my scalp. 

But as I bring him close to orgasm, he wrenches violently away from me, stumbling a step back with his pants down around his boots. His chest is heaving and his eyes have a slightly unfocused, dark intensity that I remember well. This isn’t the uncertain hesitation that has made him pause before. He knows what he wants now. He doesn’t want me to suck him off. He doesn’t want me to be in control. 

Still kneeling, I watch him shrug out of his undershirt, then kick off his boots and the rest of his clothing. He’s naked before me, towering over me. I realize I’m trembling but couldn’t say why, even if I thought he noticed or cared. He jerks his chin up and towards my bedroom, and I rise wordlessly and walk before him. He is our choreographer now. 

He follows close behind me, and as I reach the bed he doesn’t give me time to turn around. He steps against me, his torso pressed to my back, and his mouth goes to the side of my neck as his hands reach around me, searching for the drawstring on my pants. A tug, a downward yank, and then his right hand is on my cock while his left arm goes my waist, bringing me hard against him. I feel him -- still wet from my mouth -- against the cleft of my ass. I’m trapped, at his mercy as he starts to jerk me off with slow firm strokes, his breath hot on my neck. It’s my turn to start moaning and panting. All I can do is clutch at his arms and hang on for the ride. 

When he has me thoroughly worked up, pre-cum dripping until he deftly gathers it with his thumb and makes it part of the glorious hand job he’s giving me, he uses the upper half of his body to bend me forward. I take the hint and crawl onto the bed, on hands and knees. He remains standing behind me and tugs my pants off my ankles. 

Even though he’s never been in my quarters on this ship, he knows I’ll have lube in the drawer beside my bed. It’s within arm’s reach; he keeps one hand on the small of my back as he opens the drawer. Then I hear more small sounds, a click as he snaps open the lid, and a soft squelch that makes my gut roil with anticipation. Then coolness slicks between my cheeks as his finger presses, probes, massaging me open. I’m panting, “Yes. Yes.” in rhythm with his finger. He works in a second finger, then starts a scissoring motion, stretching me open. Sudden firm pressure against my prostate draws a strangled, open-mouthed cry from me. 

My arms are shaking so badly now that I collapse down onto my elbows. This serves only to angle my ass higher, and Chakotay takes it as an invitation to proceed. With one hand gripping my hip, he brings the head of his cock against me and slowly, slowly begins to press into me. His other hand drops to nudge my knees farther apart and then starts massaging my taint, my balls. I am so consumed by sensation in all these most intimate places that I forget my own name, focused entirely on his insistent fingers, his penetrating hardness, my body’s gradual opening. 

When he is deep enough to start really fucking me, his hand leaves my hip and seizes my cock again. As if by mutual agreement, we freeze there for a moment, no sound but harsh breathing from him and a kind of breathy whimpering from me. I’m so turned on I can’t silence myself, even when I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood. Then he starts to move, gently at first, and my whimpers get louder, deeper. 

Chakotay stays silent as his pace increases, even as I match his rhythm, pushing backwards to meet him, driving him deeper into me until his balls are slapping against mine. He is thrusting into me harder when he finally speaks, his voice like gravel, grinding out, “I’m not -- I’m not what -- what you think.” 

I’m a little puzzled, but it hardly seems like the time to ask him to explain. I pant out, “Okay?” He doesn’t seem to hear me. 

His tone and his motions intensify as he continues. “I’m not -- what  _ she _ thinks. I’m not!” 

I don’t have a response for this, partly because I’m only pretty sure who he means by “she,” and partly because he chooses that moment to bend down, one arm wrapping around my chest and shoulder, grazing his teeth hard at the nape of my neck, while he also does that thing with his thumb along the head of my cock. Suddenly I’m yelping and surging back through his fist, back against him, sweat dripping from our bodies. 

I gotta say, as extorted sex goes, ours is really, really hot. 

He doesn’t say anything coherent after that, and then we’re both coming, hard and loud and fierce. His roar still sounds angry and desperate in my ear but I know somehow that it isn’t aimed at me. It’s like it was in the Maquis; he has brought me his rage and together we’ve turned it into passion, released it. He’s using me, sure, but … I don’t mind. Not the way I “didn’t mind” sex-for-protection in prison, when I couldn't refuse anyway and it was better than the alternatives. This is … I don’t know. Something I can do for him, because he needs it, and I want to do what he needs. 

I can’t explain it right even to myself, not that I’d ever try to explain it to anyone else. All I know is that, as the tense rigidity of his climax passes, he collapses bonelessly atop my bent form, covering my curled body with his broad, strong one. And I hear in my head again the words, “He’s taken responsibility for your safety,” and somehow I do feel safe. 

After a minute, he slides over onto the bed, turning me with him so we’re spooned together, crosswise. His arms are around me, and the one on top is tracing lazy random lines in an ever-slowing rhythm across my chest and stomach. He softens and slips out of me, and I feel a vague sleepy wonder at the chilly sensation left in his wake. Our breathing gradually returns to normal, and I’m trying to decide if I should get us cleaned up or just go to sleep and deal with it later when I feel Chakotay’s arms stiffen around me and then slowly but decisively withdraw. He rolls onto his back. When I groggily reach back and grope for his arm, I feel him turn away and push himself up to sit at the foot of the bed, his back to me. 

I roll over to look at him. His posture speaks volumes -- he is hunched over miserably and rigid with disgust. 

“Hey,” I offer, and I reach over to touch his shoulder. 

He flinches, then shrugs my hand away angrily. Without saying anything or letting me see his face, he stands and stalks out into the main room. I lie on the bed listening to him move around, getting dressed. I sit up, find my pants on the floor, and put them on, for decency’s sake. 

I needn’t have bothered. He doesn’t return to the bedroom. Doesn’t even glance back in at me. I hear his booted feet crossing the main room, then the entry door swishes open, and closes again. 

\-----

The next morning, on the bridge, he acts like nothing happened. So do I. 

\-----

Three weeks later, he shows up at my quarters late at night. Resentment boils off him like steam. He doesn’t talk. We fuck. He leaves. 

I tell myself that I’m still flying the most beautiful ship around. I’m still flying. Damn right I am. 


	6. Kathryn

The ship. Its crew. That has to be my focus, my only focus. Their safety. 

It’s so much. And I’m so alone out here. The burden of command is no metaphor; I experience it now as a physical weight, crushing the air from my lungs, buckling my knees. I can only bear up under it by sheer force of will, by continually exhausting my reserves with no way to really replenish them. I’ve never drunk so much coffee, trying to pry my eyes open in the morning and get my brain into yellow-alert just to do my job, every day. 

I can’t risk relieving that aloneness. Because my focus  _ has to be _ the ship. Its crew. Their safety. 

I can’t stop thinking about that dream. The pool table. Chakotay, smiling. Then not smiling. His eyes intent on my face. My hands on his broad shoulders, his hands … everywhere. That delicious ache between my legs. Giving in.  _ Taking _ . 

Then he’s twitching on the floor, asphyxiating, victim to the Vidiians, on my watch, all my crew, all of them, gutted, carved up, on my watch, on my watch, on my watch. 

I don’t need a counselor -- or animal guide -- to help me interpret that one. And this guilt wouldn’t be showing up in my dreams if I hadn’t let my guard down, let Kathryn show through my captain’s persona, on the bridge of all places. That’s what I get for starting a shift under-caffeinated. Next thing I know he’s marching into my ready room and introducing me to my animal guide. Taking me by the hand, his skin so electric on mine. I hardly needed the  _ akoonah _ ; he had me half-hypnotized before he ever started talking about the bones of his ancestors. 

It’s embarrassing and under other circumstances would just be laughable, at my age, to have the hots for a fellow officer so badly it’s distracting me from work. Out here, as captain, it’s not funny. This could get us all killed if I don’t get it under control. I can’t encourage him. I have to  _ discourage _ him. 

And, of course, the truth is that even back in the AQ this wouldn’t really be funny. Not in my position. I know better. The potential for abuse. What it did to me, on the  _ Billings _ , having to wonder sometimes if my captain was thinking of our mission or my bed when giving me orders. Feeling compelled to compensate, taking stupid risks to avoid any appearance that I was benefiting from favoritism. Yes, the attraction was mutual, but the power was not, and there were times when what felt good to us looked very bad to the rest of the crew. 

Fortunately, everyone on the  _ Billings _ survived my affair with its captain, and we were both glad to see me transferred off the ship in the end. But I learned my lesson. Found Mark. Committed to him. It made things simpler, on board. It can keep things simple, even here. 

As long as I’m focused on getting this ship, its crew, safely home. Somehow. 


	7. Chakotay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to ariella884 for reviewing my descriptions of boxing in this chapter. Writing what you know is great, but having generous beta-readers who know stuff you don't is even better.

I’m in the boxing ring, sparring with a middleweight Bajoran, no real challenge, just mindless drills. Boothby is cheerfully haranguing me in his familiar way. His patter keeps me moving but I can tune out his specific words. 

_ Jab, jab; block. _

The rhythmic movements, the endorphins and the occasional physical pain let me think. Let me feel. Two things I’ve been avoiding.

I haven’t felt this kind of self-loathing since I stayed safe on a Federation starship while my people were slaughtered by Cardassians. 

_ Right hook to his jaw, blocked. _

Here I am back on a starship, back in a Starfleet uniform, with a mission that I can support with a clear conscience. The people I was trusted to lead in the Maquis are safe and respected. 

Yet I still feel like I’m being torn in two. 

My job, in its essence, is to protect the captain and enhance her leadership ... and that covers a lot. There are few limits on what she can ask of me, few constraints on what I might do for her, all in the name of the mission. 

But the job doesn't cover  _ everything _ , does it? And this captain in particular … her notions of leadership, and of propriety, of protocol, of authority, are often so rigid that it can feel like she's making me do my job in the shackles I would have worn as her prisoner. 

_ He's bobbing and weaving. Boothby is yelling at him to stop dancing and give me a fight. I tap my gloves together, raise them higher. _

In some ways this is the same old dilemma I’ve always had in Starfleet -- committed to its vision but seen by others as no more than a faulty imitation of their ideals. Too Native to be one of them but too assimilated to fit their comfortable image of an exotic Indian. The tattoo is there to make sure I remember, and it reminds them as well: I don’t quite fit. I won’t. Get used to it. 

So much of what I am has no place in what Janeway considers my role as her first officer. It could, if she would accept more of me -- my skills and insights, if not my heart. (Be honest, old man -- would you settle for less than your very soul, at this point?) 

But she won’t. Can’t, I think. Those parts of me are too closely bound up with who I am as a person, and she won’t let herself see who I am, as a person. Won’t let _herself_ be a person much of the time, not with so much riding on her shoulders out here. 

_ He comes for me but I block his attack and then I'm ready with the counterpunch. I land a good one to the ribs. He dances away again and we circle each other. _

Worst -- and best, so incredibly best -- is when she does let me in, a little, for a time. That day in her ready room, her hand in mine as I placed it on the  _ akoonah _ . She unfurled for me like a sail filled with wind, coming open to view in all her blinding glory.  _ We connected _ . I saw in almost a visionary flash what we could be together, real partners, giving one another strength, insight, solace. Joy. The briefest glimpse before we were interrupted, but that one moment could have lighted my path on this ship for months. 

_ I move in, a couple quick jabs, trying to provoke another attack from him. All he does is feint right, then back away while I’m dodging.  _

But whenever we share a moment of connection, of honesty, without fail she slams the gates shut and locks me out. Her captain’s mask becomes rigid, brittle, and she shoves me back into the straitjacket of her textbook-perfect first officer. The automatons of centuries ago. All function, no heart, nothing with a pulse permitted. 

Sometimes she also lashes out, punishing us both for her momentary lapse into humanity. She blames herself for being weak. She blames me for enabling her weakness. That is when the cutting remarks come, the small deliberate cruelties. Her insinuations when we discussed Ayala’s rank were just the first time I saw that side of her. Her little cracks about Maquis tactics; the subtle and not-so-subtle ways she slaps me down in front of the same crew I’m supposed to lead on her behalf. 

_ He seems to think he has the measure of me now. He's nodding to whatever Boothby has been saying -- I've been tuning the old man out.   _

Those are the times … I'm not proud of how I handle it, the humiliation, the rejection. Her denial of what we clearly share at an emotional level can enrage me. At other times I would swear I could serve her faithfully and chastely for the rest of my days … but those moments when she rips my heart in two and hands the pieces back to me like week-old fish … that's what drives me to Paris’s door. Because suddenly I am all libido, channeling my heartsick frustration into sex. 

Afterward, inevitably, I am filled with self-loathing at my lack of control, my betrayal of the woman I claim to serve selflessly and to love purely, my callous use of Paris’s body. I tell myself that he clearly enjoys what we're doing, he's an active and willing participant, a consenting adult … and that is all objectively true but is also so obviously my own bullshit rationalization. I disgust myself. I've never had such emotionally selfish sex, not even as one-night-stands as a much younger man, not even in the Maquis with death breathing down my neck every day. 

_ He comes hard at me again, this time unleashing a volley of jabs interspersed with hooks that drive me onto my back foot, and then back several steps. Now I'm the one dancing away, avoiding his reach.  _

The fact that Paris and I are breaking protocol is so far down the list of my sins, it hardly bears mention by comparison. But yes, if it were known, if we were found out, reported -- I can all too easily imagine the captain flaying me alive in the name of upholding protocol. And I can only speculate how it would hurt Kathryn, if she could let herself feel it. 

And if others knew … fuck, if Seska knew … she knows it’s over between us, but she never knew about Paris and me back on the  _ Val Jean _ , and … I don’t think she would take it well even now. 

_ I'm growing fatigued under the onslaught of fists as well as fears.  _ Time to end this _ , I think, and I throw a hard left jab to his head followed by a right uppercut meant to catch him under the jaw and lay him the fuck out.  _

_ Instead, his left hook finds the gap opened as my right glove dips, and suddenly I'm on my hands and knees, reeling from the glancing blow to my temple.  _

It’s wrong. I’m doing wrong, no matter how good it feels, no matter how much I seem to need that outlet. It’s wrong. I have to stop, before anyone else finds out, before I dig myself into this pattern any more deeply. 

_ “Computer, remove holocharacters.” The gym is suddenly silent except for my labored breathing. I slowly find my feet, as my mind keeps churning _ . 

Can I just … stop? With no word of explanation to Paris? We’ve never really talked about this. It would be … awkward. And how the hell can I explain myself to him, any part of this, without discussing what is -- and isn’t -- between me and the captain? 

Man up, idiot. Face the situation you’ve created, take responsibility, put things right. Now. Do it now. 

_ I rip the tape from my gloves, toss them to the floor, and grab my towel. Then stride from the holodeck, calling for Paris’s location as I go. _


	8. Paris

When the door chimes, I’m in the bedroom, just pulling on my favorite dress shirt. “Open,” I tell the computer. “Harry? I said I’d meet you and the twins in Sandrine’s.” 

When Harry doesn’t answer, I stick my head around the doorway. Chakotay is standing in the middle of the main room. He’s out of uniform -- looks like he’s come straight from the gym, actually. That’s a first in our … arrangement. 

I think fast. I’m supposed to meet friends in half an hour, but no one will think much of it if I’m a little late. I can make this work, if I hurry. 

“Um, hey, Commander.” I glance around the room, in which he is very obviously already standing. “Sure, come on in.” I’m laying on the sarcasm a little thick. That never fails to get a rise out of him, but he doesn’t seem to react. His eyes are fixed somewhere south of my face, and I realize that I haven’t buttoned up my shirt. Okay, then. Apparently he won’t be looking to waste any time, either. 

“You have plans?” he asks, in a noncommittal voice. He’s still not meeting my eyes, though. 

I realize he must have heard what I’d said about Sandrine’s. I shrug. “Nothing that can’t wait a while.” I hope I haven’t put obvious emphasis on those last two words. It’s been over a month since his last visit. I’ve been increasingly aware that the rent must be coming due, so to speak. I don’t want to give him a reason to rethink our unspoken bargain. 

I walk out of the bedroom, maybe sauntering just a little. “You been working out, or what?” 

He looks down at himself. “Boxing. Sorry. I should have cleaned up first.” 

I shrug, smile just a little. “It’s okay. That explains it, anyway.” 

He frowns. “Explains what?”

“The arms.” He blushes -- he actually blushes. I can’t believe I’ve made Mr. Inscrutable feel visibly self-conscious. “Well, the arms, and that shiner you’re sporting. Don’t your people believe in holodeck safeties?” 

“It’s nothing,” he snaps, sounding irritated.  _ Good, _ I think. _ Here we go. _

I step closer to him. “You sure? That looks awfully … tender.” I’m needling him, and though I’m doing it deliberately I notice that I’m also enjoying it. This is our pattern, our script, and I can’t deny that I’m looking forward to more sex with him. 

“Paris…” he says, a note of warning in his voice. 

I give him my best look of false innocence. “What?” I say, and reach towards his face, as if to touch the darkening bruise at his eye socket. His hand snaps up and grabs my wrist, a forceful reaction to an innocuous gesture of concern. Apparently all the holodeck punching hasn’t taken the edge off for him. 

My gaze drops from his eyes to his mouth and I’m a little startled to see him biting his lip. Man, something is really eating at him tonight. Well, that’s part of our pattern as well. I’ve known for a long time that this has never just been sex for him. He needs emotional release, not just physical. 

“Paris,” he begins again. “Listen, I -- I can’t --”

I act on impulse, grab the back of his neck with my other hand and kiss him on the mouth, hard and fast. Then I turn my head towards our two raised arms and latch onto the inside of his wrist with my mouth, sucking and grazing lightly with my teeth. I feel a shudder run down his arm from his shoulder, and then he’s on me with a curse and a growl.

\-----

“Hard and fast” is how it goes between us tonight. It’s lucky I never got the buttons fastened on my shirt, or he would have ripped them off getting me naked. The only reason we make it to the bedroom is because that’s where the lube is. He takes me standing, my hands on the bulkhead. When my cum sprays below them and dribbles down towards the carpet, I revise my ambition of bringing one of the Delaney sisters back here later tonight. Then I realize that the bruises he is undoubtedly leaving on my hips are going to rule out any other romantic encounters for a few days at least. I don’t need anyone, least of all the Doc, asking questions that I don’t want to answer. 

He finishes a minute after I do. We collapse onto our knees, both panting, and I feel him rest his sweaty forehead against the nape of my neck with a tenderness that is in stark contrast to the almost violent intensity of our mating. 

But before his cock has even gone soft, he pulls free of me, sits back on his heels, still breathing hard, then groans. I can tell when he covers his face with his hands by the way his voice is suddenly muffled. Something’s wrong, I realize. He usually relaxes for a few minutes, after, before he remembers that he’s supposed to hate me. 

He gets up with some difficulty and goes into my bathroom, closing the door behind him. I shift from my knees to sit with my back against the wall, listening for a minute. He’s showering here, this time. He didn’t mind coming here sweaty from his workout, but I guess he can’t abide the feel of whatever I’ve left on him. 

Feeling soiled myself with that thought, I get up and pull on some clothes. Not my good shirt, which I retrieve from the floor and carefully hang up. I gather up Chakotay’s workout clothes and toss them in the refresher, then go out into the main room and close the bedroom door. I want to leave so I don’t have to see him, but there’s nowhere I can go; I know I must reek of sex, and I can’t risk running into anyone when I’m supposed to be at Sandrine’s soon. I scrub my face with my hands and accept the inevitable. I get a glass of water from the replicator, then carry it to the couch, pick up a random PADD, and start pretending to read. 

A few minutes later, I hear the shower stop and then the refresher’s end of cycle beep. Another minute and he emerges from the bedroom. He’s scrubbed up clean and his clothes are dry and unrumpled. He physically radiates power and determination, only enhanced by the darkening bruise on his face. Yet the expression in his eyes looks drained, like someone let his power cell run down. He stops just through the bedroom doorway, looks at me for a moment, then swallows and averts his gaze. 

I raise my glass to him, pretending a nonchalance I do not at all feel, and ask him, “Want anything?” with a broad gesture toward the replicator. He turns his head toward the replicator but I can tell he isn’t really seeing it, hasn’t really heard me. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be doing this.” He says this like it’s killing him to admit fault to me. Then, “That’s what I came here to tell you tonight. This won’t happen again,” in a tone that sounds more like a threat than a promise. 

Ice runs through my veins. Is he reneging, pulling his protection? Then I think,  _ After everything we’ve done together? _ and that makes me too mad to remember that I’m scared. He’s moving toward the door, actually trying to walk out on me after dropping that bombshell, but I’m faster than he is. I drop the PADD and the empty glass on the couch and put myself between him and escape. 

“Hold on. What do you  _ mean _ it won’t happen again?”

That gets a reaction. It’s like I’ve given him a good shake, made him stop and actually see me. His eyes come up to my face and he looks downright affronted. 

“I mean what it sounds like. This isn’t right. We can’t keep doing this.” 

“ _ You _ keep coming to  _ me _ . I haven’t done anything wrong.” 

“Fuck, Paris, I know that. I -- I said I was sorry, but …  _ shit _ . If you want to file a complaint -- “ and he winces, clearly imagining who that report on the ship’s XO would go to, “-- of course that is your right.” He draws an unsteady breath. He’s gone pale. 

I bark out a laugh. “Complaint? Are you serious? You think I’m gonna cry misconduct? You must think I have a fucking deathwish!” 

He looks confused. “Deathwish?” He does a double-take, trying to get his grip on a conversation in which he’s clearly lost the thread. “What are you talking about? Protocol expressly forbids retaliation against crew who report sexual misconduct. You can’t imagine that the captain would penalize you --  for  _ me _ \--” He breaks off, stares at me, comes to a rapid decision. “What the fuck are you talking about, Paris?” 

“ _ We had a deal _ . You keep your former crew from messing me up -- and so far, you’ve done that, thanks.”

“Yeah, I told them to leave you alone or deal with me. But … that was months ago. Wait --  _ what deal _ ?”

“The  _ deal _ that I’ve been upholding  _ my  _ end of!” And in case he really does want to play it completely clueless, I gesture like a stage actor toward the bedroom.

The breath goes out of him like I’ve sucker-punched him, and he actually takes a step back. When his face meets mine again, he looks both terrified and outraged. “The  _ FUCK _ !?” he bellows. 

I stare at him. The man can’t dissemble, not this convincingly. This is genuine shock on his part. 

His mouth is still open. He closes it. “You -- you think I -- I’ve been  _ extorting _ you for sex?!” 

I blink. “Um.” 

Two steps, lightning quick and he is in my face, tendons popping in his neck. “Answer me, damn you. What are you saying?” His voice is quiet now and a hundred times more ominous. 

I take a step back. “Captain Janeway told me.” 

He flinches, takes in a deep breath, holds it. Then, through clenched teeth, “Told you  _ what _ , exactly? When?” He’s advancing on me. I have just enough presence of mind to back away toward a bulkhead, not toward the door. The last thing I want is to trigger it to open and give anyone in the corridor a front-row seat to this confrontation. 

“When she made me chief helmsman.” Another step back. “After the caretaker array.” Another. He’s following me like we’re tied together. “She said you’d taken responsibility for my safety.” I hit the bulkhead and stop talking. 

“Yes, that’s what I told her. Because you saved my fucking life! And you thought I meant your safety, in exchange for your  _ body _ ?” I nod. “Again, Paris. I ask you: What. The FUCK?” He slams a palm into the wall next to my head. 

I cower at that, and at his tone of contempt, and then my own anger flares up and burns away my shame for a moment. I meet his eyes, drop the facade, and let him see what I’ve been carrying all this time. “Chakotay.” 

He sees the change in my face, goes silent, staring at me. Waiting.

“In case you’ve forgotten.” My voice is flat, carefully emotionless. “I’ve done time.” 

He frowns, searching my eyes. We are almost breathing in sync, locked together in this secret. Then he reacts, draws a shuddering breath, as the pieces fall into place in his brain. 

“Oh, shit.” He looks away, backs away, puts a hand to his mouth. His eyes return to mine, flick over my face, my body. He turns his back to me and I see his shoulders heave as he struggles and fails to contain whatever my revelation has triggered in him. He mutters through his hand, “I’m sorry.” A convulsive, desperate swallow, then another “I’m sorry” as he strides towards the bedroom. 

From what I can hear, he only barely makes it to the toilet before he’s retching. I sink down to the floor, back still against the bulkhead, feeling bizarrely calm. 


	9. Chakotay

By the time my stomach has emptied itself of food and bile, it feels like nothing is left inside me but horror and disgust. Horror for what Tom was subjected to, in a manicured Earthside Federation prison no less. Disgust with myself for having missed the signs. For having avoided any interaction or communication that might have  _ contained _ any signs. For using him, and assuming that his privileged upbringing meant he was immune to feeling used, to being abused. 

I had come here tonight meaning to put a clean end to a distasteful but simple pattern of mutual amoral pleasure. 

I’d had no idea what I was doing. What I’d  _ been _ doing. And I have even less idea of what, specifically, to do now. 

I rinse my mouth, run my hand through my hair, and go out to face the consequences of my sins. 

Paris is where I left him, back to the bulkhead, but sitting instead of standing. He is very still, with a lifeless, distant look on his face. He doesn’t react to my reappearance, not even when I stand before him in his line of sight.

This isn’t good. 

I sit on the deck next to him, back to the bulkhead, about an arm’s length away. A minute or so passes while I try to figure out what to say, how to proceed. 

“Tom.” No response, no reaction. “Tom,” I say again, more insistently. 

His head turns in my direction. It’s like he’s surprised to see me, but with eyes that can no longer really be surprised. More of a mild curiosity than surprise, I guess. 

“Tom … I’m sorry. I’m … just so sorry.” 

A beat, and then he shrugs, looks philosophical. “Hey, I don’t blame you. You didn’t know you were fucking a half-dozen convicts’ leftovers.” I blink, momentarily speechless at the crudity and cruelty of that descriptor. He adds, “It would probably make me puke too. If I were you.” 

“ _ Tom _ . Damn it, that is  _ not _ what I meant.” He’s turned forward again, avoiding eye contact. “That is  _ not _ why I … lost it, just now. And I’m not apologizing for puking.” 

He sighs. “OK. Whatever.” Then he gets up, looks down at me, and walks into his bedroom. A minute later I hear the shower start. 

I hear him start to whistle, and my flesh crawls. 

\-----

Ten minutes later he emerges, hair slicked back, dressed to go out, doing up the buttons on the shirt he’d been wearing when I first arrived what now feels like a week ago. He says, “Computer, time,” and I’m astonished to hear that only an hour has passed since I left the gym this evening. Then he sees me, sitting in the same spot, and stops dead in his tracks. “You’re still here?” He sounds more baffled than annoyed. 

I nod, looking up at him. 

Just then his comm badge beeps. “Kim to Paris. Tom, where the hell are you?” 

As he’s reaching for his badge to reply, I cut in sharply. “Cancel.” He freezes, looks a question at me. “Just do it,” I bark. 

I have no idea why, but he obeys me. Takes a breath and seems to consider what to say. His voice takes on that jolly-con-man tone that he so often uses with Ensign Kim. His face, though, stays absolutely flat, a contrast that sends a chill down my spine.  _ How well can this guy act? _ I wonder.  _ When has he  _ not _ been acting, since I’ve known him? _

“Harry! Listen, pal … about that …” 

“Tom, no! You set this up! You can  _ not _ leave me on my own with both twins! Come  _ on _ !” 

“Ah, you’ll be fine -- they both think you’re just  _ adorable _ . Cut me some slack, OK? Just this once?” 

Harry sighs, giving up. “Oh, fine. But this had better be good. I’ll want details later.” 

“Sure thing, Harry. Now go have fun. You won’t even miss me.” 

I can almost hear Harry rolling his eyes. “Whatever, Tom. Kim out.” 

In the silence that then fills the room, Paris looks at me, waiting. I say, “Thanks,” and hoist myself onto my feet, muscles stiff and protesting. “You offered me a drink earlier.” 

He heaves a sigh and, in a resigned tone, asks, “What’ll you have?”

\-----

We end up drinking beer. It feels like the safe choice, as if by appearing to be just two guys hanging out for an evening we can make the talking we need to do less intense somehow. He makes it clear that any talking will have to be begun by me, so finally I just say, “I had no idea what you went through in prison, Tom. If I had, I never would have sought you out here.” 

He just shrugs at that. 

I go on. “I feel terrible that I let you think my protection on board  _ Voyager _ came at a price. At this price.” 

He purses his lips at that. “Since you didn’t know about my past, I don’t see how you could have helped what I was thinking. It was just … one of those things, I guess.” 

I take a swig of my beer. It’s very tempting to let that stand unchallenged, but I am here to be accountable for my actions, not to dodge them yet again. Finally I sigh and say, “I could have talked to you. Should have.” 

He snorts. “About what?” 

“About what I was looking for when I came here, and why.” 

“I’d say that was pretty obvious. Even setting aside the whole protection thing. No offense.” 

I look at him. “Well, okay. But I also should have been asking what you were getting out of the arrangement. I assumed consent instead of actually asking for it.” 

He chuckles at that. “Straight out of the policy manual, huh?” 

I look at him harder. “What do you mean?”

Now he laughs, unpleasantly. “I mean,” and he takes a long pull at his beer, “that if Captain Janeway herself had asked me to thumb a PADD declaring my free and full consent to be fucked up the ass by her XO, every damn time, I would have done exactly that. It wouldn’t have changed anything. You’d still have been shocked today and I suppose we’d still be having this conversation.” 

“You lie that easily?” I can’t help an accusatory note creeping into my voice. 

He gives me an offended glance. I can’t tell if it’s sincere. “It wouldn’t have been lying, Chakotay. Have I seemed any more reluctant to you, here on  _ Voyager _ , than I did on the  _ Val Jean _ , before prison?” 

I squirm at that. “No. You haven’t.” I think about that and grow more uncomfortable. “Are you saying that you felt coerced then, too?” My guilt is growing the longer we talk. This is precisely the reason captains should keep their hands off their crew, Starfleet or no. It’s just too hard to avoid questions of improper use of power. I think fleetingly of Seska but can’t deal with that topic right now. 

But Paris only sighs, rolls his eyes and smiles, before replying, “No, Mr. Protocol. I didn’t feel coerced then. I didn’t feel coerced  _ now _ .” 

“I’m confused. You thought I was extorting you for sex but you didn’t feel coerced?” 

He shrugs. “I don’t see what’s confusing. I … found myself in a situation -- or thought I did, anyway. I made the choice that made my life easier.” He sees me staring at him. “I’m good at that, you know. Years of practice by now.” At my horrified expression, he adds, “Not with sex, not usually. Just ...with everything.” 

The light dawns. “You mean Caldik Prime?” The accident that got three of his shipmates killed. The false report that got him scrubbed out of Starfleet and started his downward spiral towards the Maquis and then prison. 

He grimaces. “Sure, that too. Except for the part where I actually told the truth in the end.” He raises his beer bottle in a mock toast. “The exception that proves the rule. It certainly reinforced the merits of taking the easy way out whenever possible.” 

I look at him. “So where did you learn this valuable life skill?” I can hear the edge of contempt creeping back into my voice. I catch myself assuming, again, that Tom Paris’s behaviors are the outcome of a life of coddled privilege, and bite my tongue before adding, “Sorry, that came out wrong. I -- I want to understand. Help me understand.” 

He contemplates me for a minute, and I again have the clear impression that he can see right through me. It’s particularly unsettling when I’m trying so hard to be honest, to finally put things right. Then he shrugs. “I dunno. I guess it goes way back. Like when my dad would say: ‘We can do this the hard way, or the easy way -- your choice.’ I pretty much always preferred the easy way.” 

“Your dad?” He’s lost me, at least a little. I know his father is Admiral Owen Paris, but I know next to nothing about their relationship. 

“Ah, you know the kind of thing I mean. I’d leave some toys on the floor, and so he’d give me a choice: throw them out, or …  _ whack _ .” and he mimes a blow with the flat of his hand. 

“Your father would spank you for not picking up your toys?” I’m disturbed by that, and have to remind myself about cultural variations in childrearing. Just because my people didn’t believe in corporal punishment doesn’t mean loving parents in other cultures could never raise a hand to correct their child. 

That question earns me another snort. “Spanking. Sure. If that’s what you prefer to call it.” My unease grows. Now he really has my full attention, and I study his posture, not just his face. He’s leaning back against the couch, one arm thrown casually along its back, with his beer bottle dangling from the other hand. It’s decidedly nonchalant body language, but in a way that I’m coming to intuit is posed, fake. I glance down suddenly and notice his bare toes are tensed, gripping the carpet like he might spring to his feet at any second. 

“So I guess you lost a lot of toys that way.” He looks away, doesn't answer. “Or took a lot of beatings?”

“Dear old Dad, right?” He still hasn't confirmed -- or denied -- my obvious suspicions. 

“He sounds like a bastard.” 

He laughs drily. “What he sounds like is a Starfleet captain.” I flinch at that, turn away, take a drink. He doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort and keeps talking. “His way or the highway, as the old saying goes. A captain always has the ultimate excuse for whatever they want to do -- final responsibility for the mission, lives at stake, et cetera, et cetera.” 

“I thought your father was an admiral.” 

“God, admirals are even worse. But when I was growing up, he was a captain. I've met a lot of ‘em, and believe me, they're all the same.”

I can’t restrain myself. “Watch yourself, Paris. We both serve a Starfleet captain.” I want to say more. Want to tell him he’s wrong, that Janeway is different. I don’t know why I can’t get the words out. 

He gives me a measured look. “Yes, we do, Commander. And Captain Janeway is a lot better than most. Better than anyone else I’ve served under, and I’m not just saying that because I owe her literally everything that is good in my life now.” I start to relax, until he adds, “But you know something interesting?” I shoot him a questioning glance. “Captain Janeway served under my father, when he captained the  _ Al-Batani _ .” 

“So?” I ask, wishing the conversation hadn’t taken this turn. 

“Sooooo,” he drawls, “Exactly where do you think she learned it?” 

“Learned what?” I have the most curious sense of dread, like what I’m about to hear is going to be both awful and inevitable. 

“How to make you tie yourself up in knots. How to make you  _ want _ to do it, for her, and hate  _ yourself _ for it, instead of her.” 

My heart is pounding. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I drain the rest of my bottle. Fuck. Now what? I want to leave but things are even less resolved than they were before we started talking. 

“Sure you don’t,” he replies, his tone casual. “And it’s just being horny that brings you here every few weeks.” 

And there it is. Proof positive that he sees right through my pretenses, my strong and silent act. I have never felt more naked; I can't meet his eye. I'm sure my shame and vulnerability are written plain on my face all the same. 

“Hey,” he offers, in a gentle tone. “It's okay.” 

“It's not,” I grate out, still avoiding his gaze. “It's not okay that I  _ use _ you.” 

“What if I don't see it that way?”

“What other way  _ is _ there to see it?” I snarl. “I can't deal with … something I'm feeling, something that has fuck all to do with you, but I come here and take it out on you. It's despicable. I disgust myself.” I’m perched rigidly on the edge of the couch, adrenaline spiking as I force myself not to flee. 

He surprises me with a short laugh. “Huh,” he offers. “And here I was always thinking it was me you were disgusted with.” 

I run a hand over my face. “Twist the knife, why don't you?”

“No,” he insists. “You're still not understanding what I'm saying. How I see this.” I look at him, wait. He goes on. “It was never a secret that you hated me, or a mystery why.” 

I open my mouth to object but he holds up a hand, commanding my silence. “Don't bother pretending I'm wrong about that. We both know it's true. Everyone knows.” I close my mouth, gesture to indicate I'll let him finish. 

“In private, though -- in bed -- you're different. It’s different between us, when it's just us. When you need something that I can give you.” 

We're silent for a moment, as I contemplate what he's said. 

“I don't hate you,” I begin. 

“Whatever,” he interrupts. “That's not what's important.” 

I blink. “What's important, then?” 

“That you let me help you, when you need it.” 

“But what do you get out of it?” I'm sincerely confused. 

“Besides really good sex, you mean?” 

“Paris!” Now I'm sure he's mocking me. 

“What?” he asks, somehow managing to look innocent and leer at the same time. I roll my eyes. He's half-laughing as he says, “Seriously, the sex is good, okay?” I'm shaking my head in exasperation. Then a note of doubt creeps into his voice. “Isn't it? I mean…” He trails off, sounding uncertain. 

I look at him. “Yes, Paris. It is. It always has been.  _ But that's not the point. _ ” 

“The point is that you feel guilty.” I give a shrug and a sigh. “Well, don't,” he says, simply. “You're not doing me any harm. We're … solving a problem together, in a way we both enjoy. It's even helping the ship, right?” 

I blink at him. I think about Janeway’s coldness, my poorly-suppressed rage. What that could do to our command relationship, over time. “Um, right. I guess.” 

“All right, then.” 

He reaches across the space between us to trace the rim of my left ear. I can't suppress a shiver, can't help licking my lips. The blue of his eyes darkens as I watch, unable to tear my gaze from his, unable to stop what I know is coming, even though part of me still knows it's wrong. 

In desperation, I try my last gambit, the last card up my proverbial sleeve. “If we keep doing this… eventually someone's going to find out. Secrets don't keep on such a small ship.” 

“Bullshit,” is Tom's calm response. “The  _ Val Jean _ was a lot smaller, and no one ever guessed, did they?”

He's right, but he's also wrong, because our affair there was so sporadic and short-lived. But his fingers are massaging small circles into the base of my skull. The heat rising again in my loins and the hungry flare of his nostrils become my coward’s excuse to pretend to agree.

“We'll just have to make sure everyone still thinks you hate me.” His tone is flippant but his eyes hold a glint of something bitter, beseeching. “I don’t think that’ll be so hard to do.” 

I should tell him, again, that I don’t hate him, but I’m so frustrated with the whole situation that I can’t muster the patience to reassure him. As my hands rise to grip both sides of his head, as my mouth descends towards his, I mentally shake away a tangled snarl of guilt and dread. 

Harder to ignore is my anger: I came here tonight to end things and instead I am about to hook up with Tom for the second time in as many hours, and things between us are suddenly vastly more intense and complicated than I'd ever imagined. I feel maneuvered, even though I've been the one using him all along. 

But anger has always been part of the mix between Paris and me, and my response to it, to him, is almost Pavlovian by now. 

We are soon grappling on the floor, having rolled off the couch in the process of undressing one another. I win the advantage, or he lets me think I have, and find myself on top of him, holding his wrists to the floor, my knees spreading his open, as I devour his mouth, trace hot kisses down his neck to his collarbone. He is hard against my hip bone, pressing up, panting in my ear. It’s driving me wild but I don’t want to rush to my own climax this time, remembering with shame how ruthless I’d been with him earlier. 

I release one of his wrists to reach down between our bodies and wrap my fingers around him. He draws in a sharp breath, holds it for a moment, tensed under me, then releases it with a low moan as I start to pump his shaft. Then he wriggles his other arm free of my hold. I’m expecting him to embrace me when instead I feel his hands on both my shoulders, pressing me down the length of his body. 

I resist, raising my head to look a question at him.  _ What the hell? _ He’s looking back at me with naked desire in his eyes -- no insouciant smirk, none of the lighthearted fun he usually carries through our sessions. He holds my gaze intently and whispers, “Please.” 

Before I can even form words in my mind, I’m off him, rolling away, then sitting up. I’m fighting the urge to grab my clothes and bolt. I’m filled with … not revulsion --  _ resistance _ . And, still, anger, but with a new, more specific target. He’s changing the script on me. 

“Chakotay?” I risk a glance in his direction and see that he hasn’t moved, except to turn his head toward me. He’s naked and spread open on the floor, body language vulnerable and trusting, and I hate myself for what I’m about to tell him but  _ he’s not leaving me any choice _ and  _ I didn’t start this, he did _ . 

I have to unclench my jaw to speak. “I … don’t do that.” 

“You don’t give head?” He sounds puzzled and not in the least apologetic. 

_ Fuck it, I knew this was a bad idea _ . “Nope.” I am up now and picking up my clothes. 

“Huh.” He somehow puts volumes of meaning into that one non-word. I shoot him a sharp glance, open my mouth to ask him what he means, then think better of it, turning away to get dressed. 

“Let’s just forget it, OK, Paris? Can we do that? I’m tired; I need to get going.” 

Behind me, he says, “Sure, big guy. No problem.” The flippant condescension is back in his voice, and it gets under my skin all over again. 

Against my better judgment, I turn to face him, shorts on but t-shirt still in my hands. “What?” I ask, not really asking but warning. He’s sitting up now, cross-legged on the floor, still naked. The face he raises to me holds eyes that look … wounded.  _ Goddammit _ . Now I feel guilty again as well as angry. “ _ What _ ?” I repeat. 

He shrugs, a bit dramatically. He says, “I’m just surprised, that’s all.” 

“Why would you be surprised? I’ve never gone down on you. Why would you think --” I break off, already wishing I hadn’t let him draw me into this conversation. I know what he’s going to say before he says it.. 

“To hear Seska tell it back on the  _ Val Jean _ , you’re more than willing to give oral.” 

I glare at him. “Seska told  _ you _ about our sex life.” 

“Well, not me in particular. She liked to flaunt what she was doing with the captain.” 

I can’t claim to be surprised by this revelation -- it’s entirely in keeping with what I’ve come to realize is her character since I broke things off with her -- but my humiliation is sudden and intense, and Paris is the only target close at hand. I explode. 

“Oh, that’s just  _ perfect _ . So my former crew know what I like to do in bed and I’m sure that means all the  _ Voyager _ crew do too by now. What a perfect recipe for respect and professionalism on a Starfleet vessel.” I’ve wrestled my t-shirt on while I’m ranting. I wheel to face Paris, fists clenched at my side. “How am I supposed to look the captain in the eye now?” 

Paris cocks his head to one side, watching me melt down. “What does the captain have to do with this?” 

“The  _ captain _ is my commanding officer! She trusts me to keep order and lead by example.”

“And she’ll think you can’t do that if you like sex?” 

“No -- I -- that’s not the point! She’ll think I’m sleeping my way through the crew. That’s certainly grounds to question my fitness for leadership.” 

Paris stands and wordlessly gestures towards himself. The message is clear even to my anger-clouded mind:  _ I  _ am _ sleeping with crew _ . The fuel of my rage suddenly burns out, and I slump into an armchair, head in my hands. “This is exactly why we have to stop,” I mutter. 

Tom doesn’t say anything in response. Distantly, I hear him moving around, hear clothing rustle. Eventually I raise my head to find him, wearing pants now, leaning against the bulkhead opposite me, arms crossed, giving me a contemplative look. We stare at each other for a long moment, before he says lightly, “Remembered I was here, did you?” 

“What?” 

“You really are a self-centered son of a bitch.” 

I stare at him for a long moment. “Seriously, Paris? The crew is torpedoing my career with sexual gossip and you think I’m self-centered for being upset about that?” 

“The crew is not torpedoing your career. The captain will never hear any gossip; she relies on  _ you _ to tell her what the crew is saying. So if you don’t want her to know that you love to eat pussy -- but won’t suck dick --  _ don't tell her _ .” 

“God, would you  _ stop _ ?!?” 

“Stop what?” He’s being deliberately obtuse. He’s baiting me, taunting me. 

I do what I always do to shut him up. 

\-----

An hour later, I wake from a light doze. Paris is asleep, spooned against me. I carefully extract myself from his bed, dress, and slip out without waking him. 

As I return to my quarters, I know that I should be promising myself I won’t go back to him. I should find other ways to keep my balance, manage my emotions. I should maintain distance and treat him like any other crew member under my command; with respect, with authority, upholding my responsibility to the mission, the ship, and the captain. 

I can’t lie to myself. Not anymore. The situation we’re all in is fundamentally askew. I could drown in the chaos sometimes, and I need him to keep myself afloat. 

When I reach my quarters, the first thing that draws my eye is my medicine bundle. I scoop it off the shelf, place it carefully in the back of a desk drawer, and head for the shower. Time to stop thinking, stop feeling, stop wanting what I can’t have and fighting what I can’t resist. 

The shame burns in my gut, but not hot enough to stop me. 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration for the epic misunderstanding that underlies Chakotay’s and Paris’s resumed relations on Voyager came from Maisie Rita’s “A Question of Perspective.” 
> 
> https://web.archive.org/web/20050201153604/http://home.comcast.net/~maisierita/question1.htm 
> 
> and 
> 
> https://web.archive.org/web/20070316170027/http://home.comcast.net:80/~maisierita/question2.htm


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